He paid
very little attention to me.
"Well," said Mifflin, after freeing the dog's muzzle, and with
difficulty restraining him from burying his teeth in the tramp's
shin, "what shall we do with this heroic specimen of manhood? Shall
we cart him over to the jail in Port Vigor, or shall we let him go?"
The tramp burst into a whining appeal that was almost funny, it was
so abject. The Professor cut it short.
"I ought to pack you into quod," he said. "Are you the Phoebus
Apollo I scuffled with down the lane last night? Was it you skulking
around this wagon then?"
"No, boss, that was Splitlip Sam, honest to Gawd it was. He come
back, boss; said he'd been fightin' with a cat-o'-mountain! Say,
boss, you sure hit him hard. One of his lamps is a pudding! Boss,
I'll swear I ain't had nothin' to do with it."
"I don't like your society," said the Professor, "and I'm going to
turn you loose. I'm going to count ten, and if you're not out of
this quarry by then, I'll shoot. And if I see you again I'll skin
you alive.
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